The doe was feeding, daintily cropping the tender leaves of the young shoots, and turning from time to time to regard her offspring.  The fawn had taken his morning meal, and now lay curled up on a bed of moss, watching contentedly, with his large, soft brown eyes, every movement of his mother.  The great eyes followed her with an alert entreaty; and, if the mother stepped a pace or two farther away in feeding, the fawn made a half movement, as if to rise and follow her.  You see, she was his sole dependence in all the world.  But he was quickly reassured when she turned her gaze on him; and if, in alarm, he uttered a plaintive cry, she bounded to him at once, and, with every demonstration of affection, licked his mottled skin till it shone again.

It was a pretty picture,—­maternal love on the one part, and happy trust on the other.  The doe was a beauty, and would have been so considered anywhere, as graceful and winning a creature as the sun that day shone on,—­slender limbs, not too heavy flanks, round body, and aristocratic head, with small ears, and luminous, intelligent, affectionate eyes.  How alert, supple, free, she was!  What untaught grace in every movement!  What a charming pose when she lifted her head, and turned it to regard her child!  You would have had a companion picture if you had seen, as I saw that morning, a baby kicking about among the dry pine-needles on a ledge above the Au Sable, in the valley below, while its young mother sat near, with an easel before her, touching in the color of a reluctant landscape, giving a quick look at the sky and the outline of the Twin Mountains, and bestowing every third glance upon the laughing boy,—­art in its infancy.

The doe lifted her head a little with a quick motion, and turned her ear to the south.  Had she heard something?  Probably it was only the south wind in the balsams.  There was silence all about in the forest.  If the doe had heard anything, it was one of the distant noises of the world.  There are in the woods occasional moanings, premonitions of change, which are inaudible to the dull ears of men, but which, I have no doubt, the forest-folk hear and understand.  If the doe’s suspicions were excited for an instant, they were gone as soon.  With an affectionate glance at her fawn, she continued picking up her breakfast.

But suddenly she started, head erect, eyes dilated, a tremor in her limbs.  She took a step; she turned her head to the south; she listened intently.  There was a sound,—­a distant, prolonged note, bell-toned, pervading the woods, shaking the air in smooth vibrations.  It was repeated.  The doe had no doubt now.  She shook like the sensitive mimosa when a footstep approaches.  It was the baying of a hound!  It was far off,—­at the foot of the mountain.  Time enough to fly; time enough to put miles between her and the hound, before he should come upon her fresh trail; time enough to escape away through the dense forest, and hide